


Nature's Delight

by Fyre



Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M, Thomas Lives AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 15:30:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4882123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they took The Lady Jane, the last thing anyone expected was the human cargo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nature's Delight

**Author's Note:**

> This pairing hurts me so much. So I had to write it.
> 
> Warning - spoilers for seasons 1 & 2.

The crew of The Lady Jane barely even put up a fight.

It didn’t come as a surprise anymore. Only the bravest and most desperate ships resisted when they saw Flint’s flag. Ever since Charlestown, his reputation was spreading even further, and for good reason. 

Up until then, Billy knew Flint was holding himself in check. He was merciless, it was true, cruel, violent, unpredictable. But all the same, there was a reason to it all, something steering his course. Now, all he wanted to do was launch an offensive against any ship that dared to cross his path. 

The first thing he had done on return to Nassau was reclaim the Walrus, leaving the Spanish galleon - as promised - in the hands of Captain Vane. With enough bloodshed and violence, he had also managed to lay claim to a sizeable portion of the gold that had filled her hold. 

Since then, they’d taken half a dozen ships, sunk two of them. 

Once, what felt like a fucking lifetime ago, Gates and Flint were the ones to call a halt to any battles, when their victims were subdued. Now, Flint said nothing. More often that not, Billy was the one to make sure they weren’t just turning into butchers.

Ships like The Lady Jane made it easier. A Captain who handed over his sword, a crew who waited to be bound, that made things simpler.

Flint was standing on the forecastle. Silver was sitting on the rail by him, the ship’s log in his hands. He was talking. Probably his usual shit, the kind of thing that the Captain sometimes listened to.

Someone knocked him on the arm and he turned. A young lad was standing there, shaggy black hair falling over his eyes. He had a name, right enough, but he preferred to be called Black Dog. Thought it made him fearsome. All Billy could see was an anxious pup trying not to piss himself.

“What is it?”

“There’s something below,” the boy stammered. “Morgan says the doors locked up. He thinks it must be something special.”

Billy frowned. 

Anything important would have been listed in the ship’s log, but Silver hadn’t made any moves to send someone down to look for it. 

“Show me,” he said.

Right enough, the door was locked, but it wasn’t a galley or treasure store. It looked more like the door of a cabin, tucked away at the stern of the ship, just below the Captain’s cabin. Could have been locked from the inside, but from the bolts on the outside, the door was keeping something in, not keeping them out. 

Billy rubbed his jaw, and crouched down to look at the lock. It was a sturdy piece of work, not the kind of thing that could be easily broken open. He could always go an ask the Captain for the key, but if there was something important, he wanted to be exact when he told Flint.

It would have to be the door, then.

A couple of the bigger lads and broad beam made short work of the door, smashing it inwards. He didn’t know what he was going to find, but what was on the other side was definitely not what he was expecting. 

“Fetch the Captain,” he snapped to Black Dog. “Now.” Just to be on the safe side, he cleared the area around the small room, and was standing in the doorway, leaning against the splintered frame as the Captain approached.

“What’s going on, Billy?”

“Their Captain mention anything to you about transporting a prisoner?”

Flint frowned, brow furrowing. “What kind of prisoner?”

Billy jerked his head into the room. “Looks political. Gave him a cabin and everything, but locked him in.”

Flint stepped by him and into the cabin.

The prisoner was sitting upright on a bunk by the wall, hands folded in his lap. He was dressed up in fine clothes, but they were hanging on him, and he was gaunt and pale, like he hadn’t seen daylight in a long while.

He looked up, meeting Flint’s eyes.

For the first time since Billy had joined his crew, Flint was the one to retreat. He took a sharp step back, all colour draining from his face. He looked like he was seeing a ghost.

“Captain?”

“Get out,” Flint’s voice was choked.

“What is-”

Flint whipped around, grabbing him by the arm. “I said get the fuck out,” he snarled. 

Billy didn’t need to be told again. He caught up stragglers in his wake, and the look on his face must have warned everybody else to stay away from the hold and whatever the hell was going on down there. 

 

 

_________________________________________________

 

John liked to keep things under control.

Being Quartermaster made that a lot easier than it used to be. Of course, he still played the game. It was safer that way, to keep people on their toes. Still, he had a crew. He had men who called him brother. He had respect. 

He also had no fucking idea what was happening.

The Lady Jane was an easy prize. There were trinkets aplenty in the hold, more than enough to give the men a decent share once they got back to Nassau. And yet, instead of boxes of shine and tobacco, all the Captain had taken from the ship was a feeble prisoner. 

He’d ordered The Lady Jane cut loose, and when Silver had tried to raise the point of the loot, Flint had turned a black look on him. It wasn’t that Flint hadn’t been angry with him before, but this was something else, and Silver had survived long enough to know when it was wiser to remove one’s head from the lion’s jaws.

The Captain and his companion then disappeared off to the Captain’s cabin. The door was firmly and deliberately shut.

John had already heard mutters that Billy was the one who’d opened up the captive’s cell, which made him the man to talk to. He tracked the other man down on the poop, making a show of struggling on the steps, but Billy was having none of it and waited for him at the top of the stairs.

“A kinder man would have come down,” he panted, sitting down on the nearest bundle of rope and propping his crutch on his knee.

“A sensible man would have gone in the other direction,” Bones retorted. He was looking out over the port side. “I know what you’ve come to ask and I don’t know any more than you do.”

John leaned back against the rail. “I find that hard to believe. You’ve known Flint a long time.”

“I’ve served with him a long time,” Billy corrected. “I don’t know him at all.” He shot a look in the direction of the Captain’s cabin. “The Captain’s not about to tell us.”

“You were there when he saw the prisoner. Do you think he knows him?”

Billy didn’t reply at once. “Maybe. If he did, it was a long time ago. He looked like someone had walked on his grave.”

John shuddered. The last thing they needed were old friends of Flint’s popping out the woodwork. If a man like that could even have friends. Mrs Barlow was one thing, but Flint never said anything about his past. No one knew anything about it. Whatever he’d left behind, it was left behind for a reason. 

If one of those reasons had just come aboard, it was a new piece in play.

John wasn’t keen on new players, especially new players he didn’t know. They always changed the game, and he was doing so well - missing leg aside. Flint trusted him, but if someone came along, someone who Flint trusted more…

Well, it would complicate things, and he wasn’t in the mood for complications.

“The men aren’t going to be happy about losing such an easy prize,” he said, turning his crutch over on his knee. When in doubt, it was always best to spread the worry around, rather than hoarding it. That way, if someone said the wrong thing to the Captain, they might well be speaking John’s mind, but it certainly wouldn’t be coming out of his mouth, and it definitely wouldn’t be him looking down the barrel of a pistol. “You might need to have a word with them.”

Billy snorted, pushing off from the rail. “Let them take it up with the Captain,” he said.

Both of them knew what was going unsaid: no one would cross the Captain now. The last couple of months had been a swathe of bloody successes. They already had enough in their hold to keep them in funds for weeks, if not months. Maybe even years, if people didn’t piss and fuck it away as soon as they hit Nassau.

Even if they’d been having a bad run, Flint had come back from Charlestown more unpredictable than ever. He didn’t say what had happened to Mrs Barlow. No one had asked, but mutters went around that she was dead, shot, killed. Vane’s crew were next to useless for information, but one of the raiding party said he’d seen a woman in a coffin propped up by the scaffold, when he’d been targeting the canons.

If he was right, it certainly explained a lot about Flint’s behaviour since then.

John had a feeling it was lucky that he was unconscious for those first few days.

He pushed himself back up to his foot, tucking his crutch back under his arm. “Do you think they’ll want something to eat? His guest, I mean. He was very thin.”

“Silver,” Bones cautioned, but John was already hopping down the steps. “Silver, don’t you fucking dare!”

John grinned. Billy knew what he was like, but he also was a bloody proper little seaman and would man his quarters until they were clear of The Lady Jane. “Just being hospitable, Billy,” he called back over his shoulder. “Don’t you worry!”

“You fucking arse!” Billy raised his voice to a bellow. “Morgan! Morgan! Get below! Tell the cook to ignore anything Silver says!”

John shot a wounded look up at him. “I’m hurt, Bones. I have no idea what you think I’m up to.”

Billy vaulted down the stairs, keeping one foot on the bottom step. He grabbed John by the shirt, hauling him closer. “You are not sending anyone else to interrupt the Captain. If he wants us to know what’s going on in there, then he’ll bloody well tell us himself.”

John raised his eyebrows. “You’re sure about that, are you?” He spread his hand on Billy’s chest and firmly pushed the other man back. “Well, since the cook won’t be doing anything, and I won’t be doing anything…”

“I could order you to keep your trap shut.”

John laughed. “And make people wonder what’s wrong?” He shook his head. “We can’t have anyone being suspicious, can we?”

Billy released him with an impatient sigh. “Look, whatever this is, it’s the Captain’s business. If you want to know, you can go in there yourself, but leave everyone else out of it. This isn’t the time.”

John rolled his eyes. “Very well,” he said, “on the condition you tell me when you find out anything.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“So that’s a yes?”

Billy turned around and headed back to his station.

“A maybe, then?”

 

 

_____________________________________________

 

It was late and the moon was high when Mr Scott called Eme out of the inn.

She was surprised to see him back. He had joined the crew of The Walrus, but to her knowledge, The Walrus had not returned. If it had docked, it had done so under the cover of darkness.

“I do not understand. Why call me now? Surely it can wait until morning?”

Mr Scott led her to a small cart. “I don’t think it can,” he said, offering his hand to help her up. He climbed up behind her and put his finger to his lips, cautioning her to be silent until they were away from anyone who might be listening.

On the dark roads outside of the town, lit only by the moon and stars, he explained quietly that Captain Flint needed assistance, though he had not yet realised it. The Captain had a guest, and they would need someone to keep house in the old Barlow house.

Eme nodded.

There had been whispers around the town about Flint’s mistress. A witch some said, but others said only a woman. They said she had died, murdered by Governor Ash, and for that crime, Charlestown had burned. Her house, closer to the interior, had been left empty, but it seemed that was where Flint and his guest had gone for refuge.

She did not need to ask why Mr Scott had come to her. Flint and his crew had saved her life and spared her the shame often inflicted on women in her position. He was a harsh man, a dangerous man, but she had met many worse.

It took them some time to reach the house.

In the distance, she could see the lights in the window.

“Mr Scott, this guest - who is he?”

“We do not know.” Mr Scott’s eyes were on the road. “It is… not to be spoken of. The Captain did not want anyone to attend on him, but he is not in a position to take care of a sick man.”

Eme shivered, drawing her shawl closer around her. “He does not know we are coming, does he?” 

Mr Scott made no reply.

When he drew the cart to a halt outside of the house, he motioned for her to remain where she was and approached the door. It swung open before he even reached it and Flint was a shadow against the light, his pistol gleaming silver in his hand.

“Turn around and go back, Mr Scott.”

Mr Scott was braver than Eme felt. “I can’t do that, Captain. You will need help.”

Flint’s face was invisible in the darkness. “I don’t want or need your help.”

“Not for you,” Scott’s voice was low. “For your friend.”

The pistol remained steady, pointed at Mr Scott’s head, then slowly it was lowered. “Which one is it?”

“Eme, Captain.” Mr Scott beckoned her. She scrambled down from the cart and hurried over, gathering up her skirts to keep them from the dirt. “Max does not trust her. It would be safer for her to be here. She can be of help to both of you.”

Captain Flint stared at her, as if appraising her, then nodded curtly. “She stays. You go.”

Mr Scott nodded. “There are things in the cart. Food. Some medicine.”

“Bring them in, then get the fuck out.” Flint turned and walked back into the house. 

Eme hurried with Mr Scott to fetch the baskets from the cart. “How long will I stay here?” she asked in a whisper. 

“As long as he requires you,” Mr Scott replied. He caught her hand. “I was not lying to him, Eme. The inn may be dangerous for you now. Max is growing stronger. She knows you are loyal to Eleanor.”

“I know.” Eme drew her hand free and picked up one of the baskets. “Just because I keep my eyes down does not mean my ears are not open.” She smiled faintly. “It is not the first time I have been watched by someone who wishes to do me harm. It will not be the last.”

She went into the house. It was not as grand as some, but it was large and well-made. 

It looked like it had been robbed since Mrs Barlow’s passing. Broken pieces of china had been scraped to one side by the wall. Books had been dragged off the shelves and left scattered on the floor. Someone must have stopped the thieves. There was still much of value in the house.

She set the basket on the table and looked around. The Captain was nowhere to be seen, but the light from one of the bedrooms told her where he would be.

By the time Mr Scott finished unloading the cart, she had found a copper kettle and filled it from the pitcher on the shelf beneath the window. The fire in the grate was slow to take. It would need cleaned come morning, but now, she needed hot water.

Mr Scott made his farewells, and she stood at the window, watching the cart disappear out into the dark. It was a long way back to the town and the inn. Even if she could walk, she would have to wait until morning.

She drew herself up with a sigh. The Captain let her in. He knew he needed help, but he was a man, and like many men, he was proud. He would not ask for help, but he would take it.

It took to arrange everything that Mr Scott had brought. There were bottles of opium and laudanum and other medicines she did not recognise. There were bundles of herbs and thick, heavy cakes of sailor’s biscuit. There was a lot of dried meat.

She paused in her task when the kettle began to boil.

There was, of course, tea. 

Whether it was welcome or not, she filled the pretty china pot and set two cups and two saucers onto a tray. Her hands shook as she picked it all up and carried it through the silent house. The glow from the bedroom was soft, the light of several candles, and she had to push the door wider with her elbow.

The hinges creaked.

The Captain was sitting on the edge of the bed. He turned at the sound, then rose. She could see the question - the suspicion - in his eyes. 

“I have made tea for you,” she said softly. “It is pleasant after a long journey, I am told.”

“Yes.” The Captain was still watching her. He was obscuring the bed, and the man upon it. He nodded to the window ledge. “Put it there.”

She crossed the floor carefully, and from beneath her lashes, she looked towards the bed. 

The man upon it looked very ill. He had the gauntness of someone who has not eaten well in a very long time. His pale hair was thin, as if it had fallen out in part. He looked very small and fragile in the bed.

Eme set the tray down, then swallowed hard. “Would you like some tea too, sir?” She heard the Captain draw a sharp breath, but she turned and looked to the man in the bed. “A sweet tea is very comforting, I have been told.”

Light blue eyes focussed on her face. He did not speak, but his mouth moved. It was a shadow of a smile, and he lowered his head in a nod. Even that seemed to weary him.

At once, the Captain was stepping around her, reaching for the teapot. “Fetch some sugar, girl,” he said sharply. “Now.”

She darted to the door at once, but paused there, looking back into the room.

The Captain was pouring the tea. The pot looked fragile in his large, strong hands, but he was so very careful. He did not seem to know she was still there when he spoke to the man on the bed. “It’s hardly the finest Bohea…”

The other man’s eyes remained on the Captain. “I suppose we’ll manage.” His voice was unsteady and hoarse, but there was fondness there.

The Captain turned around to look at the man. He no longer looked so terrible. He even smiled, a small sad smile, before he noticed Eme. His brows drew together, and she fled to fetch the sugar before he could remember his ferocity. 

 

 

___________________________________________________

 

The day was already thick with heat.

The Pastor wiped at his brow with the cuff of his shirt, for all the good it would do. He could not say if it was the heat or his destination that was troubling him more. It had been quite some time since he had been to the Barlow house.

He had heard all the rumours, of course. There wasn’t a person on Nassau who hadn’t heard of the fate that had befallen Charlestown, or the cause. Mistress Barlow had, once more, spurred a man to destruction.

She was gone, a memory to those in the interior now, but two nights previously, one of his faithful had rattled at his door and whispered of strange goings-on. The pirate, Flint, had returned to the house, and had brought someone with him. An invalid from the sounds of things, too weak to stand unsupported. A slave had followed shortly thereafter.

Evelyn Lambrick was not by nature a cowardly man, but he had heard many dreadful things about Flint, and he had no wish to find himself on the end of the pirate’s blade. He waited, and when word came that Flint had left the house to ride into the town, Lambrick donned his hat and set on his way. 

Even from a distance, he could see how overgrown the plots around the house had become. Mistress Barlow had kept her home neat and her gardens orderly. Now, it was only an assurance that she was truly gone. He wondered at the sadness and at the relief, feeling guilty for both in equal measure.

The house looked as he remembered it, though the porch was now covered in a fine layer of dust, and the place where they had once taken tea had been stripped of all furnishings. Some of his flock, he recalled, before he had reproached them for robbing the dead. 

The board of the porch creaked beneath his feet.

All he had to do was knock, yet some wariness stayed his hand.

Instead, he moved closer to the dusty window, peering through to see if the alleged invalid was visible. For all that the house was in disarray without, within was another matter. The table was polished and neatly set, and the furniture neatly arranged. 

Beyond it, he could see movement in the kitchen, and cupped his hand over his eyes, peering through the glass.

Yes, there.

There was a large bath tub set before the fireplace, and a fire was burning, even on a day so hot as this. He could see the slave girl moving around, and in the tub, there appeared to be a man, though the glass made it difficult to see.

Evelyn’s fingers twitched. They did not need to know he had been peering in at the window like a thief in the night. If he knocked and disturbed them, how was he to know anyone might be bathing before a fire at such an unreasonably hot point in the day?

He rapped briskly on the door before he could change his mind. 

There was a brief scuffle within, then a dark face peered out the window in the door. He had seen the girl once or twice when he had ventured into the town, and she clearly recognised him.

She opened the door a crack. “Good day to you, Pastor.”

He tried to smile. “And to you, my child. Is your master present?”

She watched him carefully. “My master is not here, sir, but I will tell him you visited.”

He looked over her head, and without the dusty window, he could see the man hunched in the bathing tub. It was no one he recognised, and the man’s face was turned towards the fire anyway. There were scars on his back. Flogging, no doubt. Another pirate come to poison their fair island. No need to linger.

“Very well.” He inclined his head. “Good day.”

She nodded and closed the door quietly.

He was a good hundred yards down the road when he heard the patter of feet behind him.

“Pastor!”

Evelyn turned, frowning. The young slave woman was running towards him, her skirts gathered up in her hand. She looked troubled.

“What is it, girl?”

She glanced back at the house, as if afraid she might be doing something wrong. “My master is not home, but his guest would welcome spiritual counsel. He- it is a long time since he spoke with a man of faith.”

Evelyn’s heart felt tight in his chest. “Indeed?”

The girl nodded. “He said if you will join him, he would like to speak with you.” 

Well, he had brought this upon himself, he supposed. “Very well.”

She led him back to the house, then hesitated on the porch. “Please wait for a moment.” She slipped into the house, closing the door behind her.

Evelyn remained on the porch, swatting away a fly and hoping that he did not look excessively uncomfortable. He had only hoped to find out what was amiss at the house. He had not intended to be invited in to offer comfort to a sick pirate. 

Several minutes later, the door opened again.

The girl let him enter.

The heat was even more stifling inside, the fire stoked high.

The man had moved from the steaming bath tub, and was seated at the table. He was fully dressed, but even then, Evelyn could see how gaunt he was. His thin hands were folded on the tabletop. Evelyn hastily removed his hat as he crossed the threshold, and the stranger inclined his head.

“Forgive me if I do not rise. I have been… unwell.”

Evelyn could not help but stare at him. The man spoke as a gentleman would, not as one of the scoundrels from the beach would talk. “That’s quite all right,” he answered hastily. “I did not come here to torment the sick.”

The man’s smile was a flicker on his face. “You’re the Pastor in this area?”

“Yes, sir,” Evelyn approached the table. “Evelyn Lambrick. And you are?”

“Thomas,” the man murmured. He glanced up with a grateful nod as the girl set a cup of tea down beside him. “Thomas McGraw.”

“Your girl said you wished to speak to me, Mr McGraw?”

Blue eyes fixed on his face with an intensity that was unnerving from so fragile a figure. “I do. I have always been a man of faith, Pastor, but the past few years have been… difficult. Difficult to remain true to my God, to my self, to those I love.” When he picked up his teacup, Evelyn could see how much McGraw’s hands were trembling. “I find myself wondering on the nature of pain. When it is inflicted by one man upon another.”

Evelyn felt like he had swallowed a rock. Sweat was trickling down his spine, and he could all too clearly recall a conversation in a similar theme on the porch. “I-I suppose it depends on the reason. A criminal could expect a punishment, I believe.”

“And one who has committed no crime?”

“I… Christ shows his love through suffering.” Evelyn had to look away from those clear eyes, watching him so intently. “Surely it is no mean thing to be like the saviour, suffering for the betterment of others.”

McGraw’s cup clinked against his saucer. “I see.”

Evelyn glanced at him, but the man was looking towards the window. There was nothing to be seen, but Evelyn heard the approaching pound of hooves on the hard dirt road. Flint. Holy God, the last thing he wanted was to be caught by the pirate.

“I fear I must go, Mr McGraw,” he stammered. “I have parishioners to visit. I only wished to welcome you to our community.”

Those blue eyes turned back towards him. The man’s expression was unreadable. “Yes, perhaps you ought to be on your way.”

Evelyn nodded a quick bow, then hurried towards the door, but he was already far too late. It swung inwards, and for the first time, Evelyn found himself face to face with Captain Flint. The man’s eyes blazed with anger. Evelyn stumbled back a step.

“What the hell is he doing in here?”

The girl rushed up. “Your pardon, Captain. I let-”

“I asked to speak to him.” Thomas McGraw’s voice was quiet. “He’s leaving now.” Evelyn couldn’t pull his eyes from Flint’s face, and Flint’s glare was fixed on him, as if he wanted nothing more than to tear him to pieces. “James, the man is leaving.”

Flint snorted in disgust and stepped around Evelyn. “I think it would be wise if you did not return, Pastor,” he said.

Evelyn’s hands were shaking and he could only nod, his mouth dry as a bone. He stumbled for the door, pushing past the Guthries’ manservant who was standing there, and into the daylight. He didn’t look back. 

 

______________________________________________

 

Scott did not know what he had walked into.

The Pastor had run like a whipped boy, and Flint was in a rage. Eme was standing behind the chair of Flint’s guest, stiff with apprehension. The only person who did not seem troubled was Flint’s guest.

“Why the devil did you have to invite him in?”

The other man looked up at him. “To see if he was as you said.”

Flint wheeled about to stare at him, the wind taken from his sails. “What?”

“You warned me. I was curious.” The man rubbed his hands together. They were trembling, Scott noticed, as if he had the palsy. “I doubt he will return.”

Flint snorted, kicking out one of the chairs. “The devil he will,” he muttered. He shed his heavy leather coat, dropping it over the back of the chair, and tugged at his shirt. “Christ in heaven, are you trying to bake us alive, girl?”

“I had to heat the water for Mister Thomas’s bath,” Eme said, raising her chin. Scott fought down a smile. She was a fierce woman, Eme. Of course she would not show fear in front of Captain Flint. “He was just finishing when the Pastor came.”

Scott couldn’t identify the expression that crossed the Captain’s face. There were too many emotions, none of them that he had ever seen before. Flint sank down into the chair opposite his guest. “A bath?”

His guest looked down at his hands on the tabletop. “A hot bath. It was pleasant.” He looked back up, then turned, frowning, to Scott. “Forgive me, sir. We have not met.”

“I am Mr Scott, sir.” Scott murmured. “The Captain believes we should be introduced.”

The Captain looked as if he was regretting the decision already. “Mr Scott brought Eme to assist us. I felt it was only justified that he was made aware of the situation.” He glanced up at Scott, then back at his guest. “His… family have been keeping Nassau in check for the last half-dozen years. Mr Scott may be able to fill in any gaps that I have not been able to. Mr Scott, this is Thomas-”

“McGraw,” the man interrupted. “My name is Thomas McGraw.”

Again, Flint’s expression shifted, and he pressed the edge of his hand against the table. His cheek was twitching, but he nodded. “Thomas McGraw.” He took a breath and released it sharply. “He knows Nassau’s history very well, you will find.”

McGraw gestured to the vacant seat at the head of the table with a shivering finger. “Please sit, Mr Scott. I would very much like to hear about your business.” He reclaimed the teacup in front of him. “Please tell me everything.”

Scott sat down. Beyond Mr McGraw, Eme was moving about the house, opening up windows to allow some little air in. Scott looked between the two men, confused. “I am not certain why you need to know the past of this place, Mr McGraw.”

Captain Flint snorted quietly. “You know Eleanor and I have long been working towards a common goal, Mr Scott.” He nodded across the table. “This is the man who started that plan, many years ago. This is the man who would save Nassau.”

McGraw cradled his teacup in his palms. “It was not my ambition alone,” he said quietly. He looked at Scott. “Please, Mr Scott. There is much I have missed. I know little of Miss Guthrie and her business. I would like to know how she accomplished so much, so well.”

Scott frowned. It felt like a betrayal to speak of her, in her absence, knowing where she was likely to be now.

“Damn it, man,” Flint snapped, “we have no intent to sully her reputation. We wish to move forward with her plans. Anything you can tell us, any means she used, may help us in this course. Until she returns, someone must steer Nassau’s course.”

Scott’s heart jolted in his chest. “Returns?”

For a moment, Flint’s expression eased. It was almost a smile. “Where the fuck did you think Vane had buggered off to? If he can get me off the gallows, I don’t doubt he can snatch her from the navy.”

“My God, James,” McGraw murmured, “you really have become a pirate, haven’t you?”

The Captain grimaced. “That’s not relevant just now. Mr Scott, if you don’t mind?”

Scott watched the Captain for a moment. 

It was true that Eleanor had put her faith in the man, when no one else could see a reason to do so. He also knew that the Captain had been in earnest when he worked for her cause. It would be an ill-done thing to doubt him now.

He started speaking, and as he did, he saw the way Captain Flint relaxed back into his chair. It was as if he had feared Scott would not comply or assist him, as if Scott’s words were of vital importance to this stranger, this McGraw. 

At some point, Eme brought them fresh tea. Once in a while, McGraw asked a question, always pertinent or concise. Captain Flint was right about the man. He knew what he was about. 

It was late in the afternoon when Captain Flint suddenly rose, and one look at McGraw told Scott why. The man was getting paler by the moment. 

“I think we should continue this conversation another day, Mr McGraw,” Scott said, rising quickly. “Captain, do you need my assistance to help Mr McGraw to his chamber?”

The Captain hesitated, then nodded shortly. 

Mr McGraw did not protest as they lifted his arms over their shoulders to help him through to the bedroom. Flint could have easily carried him by himself. The man felt like nothing more than skin and bone beneath this clothes.

His arm curved around Scott’s shoulders, the cuff of his sleeve drawn back. There were scars on his wrists. Bands of pale, faded skin left by restraints, and a darker, thicker pit that looked like it might have been gouged there. Scott shivered. He had seen marks like that before, though never on a English gentleman.

“Thank you,” McGraw breathed, as he was laid down on the bed. “For your time and patience.”

Scott bowed his head slightly. “It was my pleasure, Mr McGraw.”

The Captain drew covers over McGraw. “I’ll be back in a moment. I need to see Mr Scott out.”

McGraw’s eyes were already closed.

Captain Flint nodded towards the door. Scott made his way back through the house.

“I trust,” the Captain said shortly, “you will be discreet about my guest.”

The threat hanging on the words did not need to be said aloud. 

“If I am asked,” Scott replied, “I know no more than the rest of your crew: you took a ship and found this man. It is believed he is an old crewmate. I do not know anything more than that.”

Flint studied him for a moment, then nodded and extended a hand. “Much obliged to you, Mr Scott. Your assistance has been invaluable.”

For the first time in the years they had known one another, Scott felt the man was being wholly sincere. He grasped Flint’s hand and shook it. “You know where I can be found, if I am needed, Captain.”

 

_______________________________________

 

The bed felt too soft beneath him.

It was not enough to keep him falling into an exhausted sleep, but it was strange enough to wake him. That and the silence. Thomas lay still, taking a moment to recall his surroundings. It was not the chilly damp of his… cell - for want of a better word - in Bethlem, nor the rolling list of the ship. No distant screams, or moans, or shouts here.

James’s home. 

Yes. James. James was here.

He opened his eyes, drinking in the warmth-hued walls, lit by the soft flicker of candlelight. A small house, it was true, modest but comfortable. There were furnishings, polished wood, blankets, candles, all simple things he had missed for so many years.

Miranda had lived here with him, James had said, until very recently. He had not given the details, but from the grief lining his face, it had not been a peaceful end. Time had changed James so much. Once, he had only been a pragmatist. Now, he was worn and jaded and grimmer than Thomas had thought possible. 

Thomas turned from his side onto his back. The warmth of the air was comforting, another reminder that he had been liberated from behind those terrible walls. No more punishment for speaking out. No more doctors seeking to cure him. No more… no more of any of it.

“You’re awake.”

He tilted his head, startled.

James was seated in a high-backed chair by the bed, keeping a distance between them. 

It had been the same on the ship. He had only touched him to help him from one cabin to another, and from the ship to a small cart. Beyond that, the maid had undressed and dressed him, not James. James had held himself away, arms tightly folded. 

No small wonder, given that their intimacy was the very thing that tore them apart.

“So it would seem.” Thomas tried to smile. “You too.”

James nodded, rising. “Are you thirsty? Hungry?” He circled the bed to fill a cup from a pitcher. “You need to-”

“James.”

James was as one turned to stone. “You need to regain your strength,” he said quietly, as if Thomas hadn’t spoken. “You- they have left you very weak.”

With effort, Thomas managed to sit up. “James, please, look at me.”

“You asked the girl to bathe you in my absence,” James said. “I could- I would have.”

“Would you?”

James swung around to stare at him. “Of course I would have!” He crossed the floor in three steps, sinking to kneel beside the bed. “Thomas, whatever you need, I will provide for you, I promise you.”

Thomas gazed at him. God in Heaven, he wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch him, but until James showed himself willing, until he knew his affections were still welcome, he could not and would not press them.

“I thought,” he said carefully, “it might discomfit you.”

James looked at him in pained bewilderment. “I don’t understand. If you need my help, why would that discomfort me?”

Thomas lowered his eyes to his hands. They were still shaking. He doubted if they would ever stop. It had begun not long after they took the hide to him for the fourth time. Curbing his argumentative nature, warning him against speaking nonsense and rousing the other inmates, driving out his grief, God knows what other reasons they gave.

“Matters are not as they were,” he finally said, “are they? I am not the man I was and you-”

“I’m a pirate.” James’s voice had turned ugly and bitter.

Thomas raised his eyes to him. “Do you think that matters to me, James? When I know why?”

James’s face creased with despair. “You don’t understand the things I have done. Christ, if you did, you wouldn’t be able to look at me.” He shuddered. “It should matter to you. You’re a better man than that. Than me.”

Thomas reached out and touched James’s cheek. It was a light touch, but James still recoiled as if he had been struck.

“Thomas-”

“I am not the same man I was,” Thomas interrupted quietly. His hand shivered as he pushed back one sleeve from his wrist. They had sewn him up, saved him, for a purpose he hadn’t understood then, but after weeks on those ships, he knew all too well. 

James was staring at his bare wrist and reached out, gently covering the scarred skin. “What the hell did they do to you?”

Thomas could not help but notice how much broader and rougher James’s hand looked now, browned by the sun, scarred, burned by gunpowder. But still so gentle. 

“What they thought was necessary. They needed me. I scarcely understood why.” He curled his fingers to wrap around James’s wrist. “An Admiral had me taken from Bethlem.”

James’s pulse jumped against his fingertips. “Who?”

Thomas shook his head. “I don’t know.” He tightened his grip, savouring what little contact James would allow him. “They spoke of you, of Flint.” He leaned closer. “James, they released me for a reason. I think they sent me as bait to trap you and weaken you. Whatever you have done-”

James rose, drawing his hand away. “I cannot stop now.”

Thomas reached out to him. “I know.”

James stared at him, at his outstretched hand. “Know? What do you know? I have _killed_ people, many of them, even friends and allies. I killed Peter Ash.” He laughed, sharp, and bitter and full of self-loathing. “Did you know that? His men killed Miranda and I killed him and burned his whole damned city to the ground.” He groaned as if in pain. “And your father. I killed him too. Jesus Christ, Thomas, you shouldn’t even look at me.”

The words should have hurt.

Perhaps, ten years ago, they would have.

Now, they were just part of the cage that had held him and had almost killed him so many times. He could remember Peter’s face, hopeful, fearful, as he confessed what he had done. That was when Thomas still held together the shreds of himself and smiled as if he were at peace, as if that would allow him to walk free.

Every time someone came, he hoped, prayed, it was a test, to assess whether he was behaving well enough to be allowed his freedom, but every time, the bars were closed once more and the damp darkness chilled him to his bones. In time, he stopped responding when they called. In time, they became part of the gallery of cruelty.

It was for James and Miranda.

It was in exchange for their safety, their lives, their well-being.

He behaved, he complied, he obeyed. 

He bled, he screamed, he wept.

And now, now to see James, brittle and broken and filled with shame and self-loathing, and to know that Miranda had been killed, it was all for nothing.

“Good,” he whispered.

“Good?” James echoed. “Thomas…”

Thomas looked up at him. “They promised you would both be well. You would both be safe and happy. They lied. They destroyed everything we were hoping to do, they destroyed us.” His vision was blurring, and he groped out blindly for James’s hand. “I thought I was saving you both from their wrath, James. Had I known-”

All at once, the bed shifted beneath him, and James was beside him, his arms around Thomas’s body. He was broader, stronger, thicker than Thomas could remember, but the scent of him was still the same. He buried his face in James’s shoulder, breathing him in, drowning himself in it. 

“You’re safe now,” James whispered, holding him fast. “I have you, and we are going to finish what we began.”

Thomas could find no words. He could only hold onto James and nod as his tears spilled down his cheeks.

 

___________________________________________________

 

Thomas was asleep.

James wished he could find the same respite, but all he could think of was Sir Alfred’s death. The thought playing over and over in his mind was that it had been too swift, too merciful, nowhere near the punishment he deserved for the cruelty he had inflicted on his own son.

Thomas had changed.

They both had.

When James thought of Thomas, he thought of that benevolent smile, the longing to do right by all, the idealism and hope for a future that would not be built on a stack of corpses. That man had died in Bethlem, just as James McGraw had been laid open in London, and then again in Charlestown. 

Things could not be the same, not as they were. They had both seen and lived through too much horror to return to the simpler days, when they could laugh over books and share a smile across the dinner table. 

Whether they would be able to find their way back to that place, when they fit together like pieces of a puzzle, James could not be sure. 

Thomas jolted in his embrace, flinching as if he was in pain.

It was not the first time he had woken so since their reunion on The Lady Jane, but it was the first time James had held him closer, stroked his brow, murmured his name. The tightness in Thomas’s features eased, and his grip on James’s arm loosened.

He would not say what had been done to him, not in the particulars, but James could remember the tales out of Bethlem. He had not believed them, not for the son of a nobleman, but the scars on Thomas’s back, his wrists, said those tales were true. Tales of being sluiced with ice-water as a so-called cure, of being beaten, of being shackled to walls to garner appropriate behaviour. 

“I should have come back for you,” he whispered, smoothing Thomas’s wispy hair gently. “Christ, Thomas, I should never have left you there.”

Thomas’s eyes flickered open. “Don’t,” he murmured.

“Don’t?”

Trembling fingers touched his wrist. “It’s done.” Thomas’s voice was softened with drowsiness. “Regret cannot undo it.” He gazed up at James. “What matters is what we do from now. That we finish what we began, as best we can.”

James could see the shadow of the man Thomas had been behind those words, the man that was at the root of him. If he could bring that man back to the surface, let Thomas hope and believe in the betterment of the world once more, it could be better. He knew he would do everything in his power to see it so.

He leaned down and kissed Thomas’s lips. Thomas sighed into the kiss, his eyes closing briefly.

“We have much to do,” James murmured, tilting his head to rest his brow against Thomas’s. “I can keep a hand on the reins for now, but as soon as you are well, we must start making arrangements. I know… what? What is it?”

Thomas was smiling, gazing up at him through his fair lashes. “Always working so hard, James,” he said, his thin hand pressing to James’s chest through his shirt. “Some would be resting, taking a moment, but you? No. No, you must always be thinking, looking to the future.” His smile brightened his gaunt face. “You can change your name and your profession, but you are still that same man I loved.”

“Thomas,” James began, then faltered. “Christ, Thomas…”

Thomas lifted his hand to cradle James’s cheek. “I’ve missed you too.”

James felt as if the air had been ripped from him, and the sob was a sharp, choked sound.

For so many years, the memory of Thomas had been like a blade in his heart, a sharp pain with every breath and every step, but now, the blade was gone, and he was bleeding, his emotions spilling from him. He could only lean down and kiss him again and again, careful, gentle, flavoured with the salt of their tears.


End file.
